Beautifully designed doorknob. When functional objects become sublime.

Exist For Me

Exist for me, beloved
In a thousand little ways: when the dawn lights
The eastern sky, when rain slants
Onto city spires. As children walk to school
And comets spin around suns.

The potters spins his wheel,
The artist wields his brush: I can hear
The chords and the keys,
Of strings read to play.
All that is beautiful awakes in my heart
You exist, but only for me.

I will take the blame for this passion.
I will shoulder the guilt and the
Heartsearching if it so becomes
More than necessary. Whatever
This destiny, whatever these dreams
Walk with me, exist for me.

Copyright: Rani Turton

The detail of a lampost in front of the Marie de Paris (the Townhall of Paris). Many ornate lamposts decorate Paris, a real joy to discover.

My Beloved’s Face

My beloved’s face has haunted me night after night;
Many were the moments I spent eluding sleep
Many were the words I wrote on white sheets
And wordlessly, I often did weep.

I did not want to become yet another melancholy
Sentimental selfless shell;
The night was so dark, so obscure that I felt
I had walked on the paved road to hell.

My beloved’s face has haunted me night after night
And sleep eludes me still;
When dawn finally does come will I still be
Standing by this windowsill?


Copyright: Rani Turton

Detail of fountain in Paris.

 I Pause But Life Goes On Anyway

Whether the road is straight or narrow; at times
The slope is steep, and breathless, I pause: existence, this moment now;

But life goes on anyway.

My existence is confined to this moment now;
Imagination could not, boundless though it seemed
Make walls tumble down or frontiers to crumble.

I wait. I wait for life’s answers. But how many questions
Come to mind? Who can say?
Is there a tomorrow after today?

In instants of doubt, hesitation and haste
And not knowing right and wrong
And the ease of tranquil mind;

I wanted to  leave this existence far behind.
Ah, but then I paused and let life take me by the hand.
I, who so often wanted to understand.

Copyright: Rani Turton

The Taj Mahal, Agra in all its splendour. Built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan for the tomb of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal. It was constructed between 1631 and 1648. The myths around this tomb are many but the truth remains: never was such a monument built by a king mourning his dead wife.

Listening, Yes, I’m Listening

To the wind in the trees, the leaves as they softly whisper
Ah whisper unwise and profound things to me:
In this crazy world words  at times bind you
Instead of setting you free.

Listening, yes, I’m listening
Songs of wisdom,and sometimes liberty;
Telling me to leave pain behind
To seek another kind of identity.

Leaves move like soft and tender hands
Leaves whisper and sigh, sigh and so
I listen, yes, I’m listening
To their voices as the day drifts by.

Who do they speak to? To me?
Or to the stone tower and the sky?
Ah, if only I could decipher their voices
Their language and thus reply.

Listening, yes, I’m listening
Though I rarely did that well before;
Listening, as the wind is whistling high
Listening in silence once more.

Copyright: Rani Turton

LONG SOUGHT-FOR LOVE, BELOVED

Long  sought for love, beloved
By lamplight, moonlight, insomniac nights
I followed faint paths
The poems my voice recites

Far from fantasy, almost in rage
Pages that ink-filled, with a kind of grace
Sought your smile and fingers
Sought your much loved face.

Long sought-for beloved
I think I have found the traces
Of your wanderings; like my soul
You have sejourned in many places.

Now that I believe I will find you
Someday, somehow and somewhere;
Ah, how I long for that day when
I finally see you standing there.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Statue of French writer Dumas at Villers-Cotterêts where he was born  on 24 July 1802.  Author of works such as The Three Musketeers, The Black Tulip  and the Count Of Monte Christo, Dumas was of mixed blood.  His adventurous life perhaps contributed to his action packed novels. He died debt-riddled the 5 December, 1870 at Puys.

Villers-Cotterêts has a museum dedicated to him at Le Musée Alexandre Dumas, 24 rue Demoustier.  He was buried in the cemetry of this town, until the 30 November 2002 when his remains were transferred to the Panthèon.